


Beautiful Wreck

by tabaqui



Series: Crash [2]
Category: Angel: the Series RPF, Buffy the Vampire Slayer RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabaqui/pseuds/tabaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Your Breath in my Hands' from Jason's POV.  Also a little backstory and 'night after' story.<br/>Originally posted in May of 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beautiful Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There is dub-con here (drugs are involved), drug use, and mentions of past child sexual abuse.
> 
> In the grand tradition of the 'Cracktrailer', a few other real people are tossed into the mix, including Christian Kane, Russell Crowe and J. August Richards.

He comes off the interstate just before dawn, ache in his hands and his thighs and his back, cheeks wind burned, eyes gritty. Hasn't slept since…Albuquerque, maybe. Maybe before. Little jump of his front wheel when he passes Little Turkey Creek, sluggish ripple of water in the corner of his eye, the road named after the rill nothing but shadows in the gloom.

Accelerating away down the business loop, deliberately not looking – not thinking – about the turn he could have made, the path he could have traced, through oak and dogwood to David's house.

Instead, he follows the business loop to the edge of town and Lacey's Diner, faded neon pale in the strengthening light, parking lot full of pot holes and puddle jumpers, early-morning crowd taking up space. He throttles down and glides to a stop – cuts the motor and just…sits. Half-deaf from the roar of the engine, the howl of the wind, numb from the solid buffet of air against his skin, it takes a minute to get his hands to unclench, to get his legs to move. Then he's swinging his foot over and down, standing carefully, twisting in place, until his sore back crackles and pops, feeling blood rushing in, hot and heavy, to an ass and thighs long gone senseless. 

He shakes out his hands, peels the gloves off and shoves them into his jacket pocket. He feels for his wallet, lifts the goggles up and away and hangs them on a handlebar. Then he takes a deep breath and strides into the diner, raking a hand back through dust-thick, wind-knotted hair and lifting the corner of his mouth into something that might be a smile. 

Showtime.

 

He's mostly through his plateful of eggs, toast, bacon and fried apples when the chime over the door goes and a ripple of silence hits the diner – spreads and rebounds and is gone in seconds, but Jason knows. Not looking around, but feeling the skin on the back of his neck tighten, all the same. He wipes his mouth and picks up his coffee – takes a long sip.

Christian's there, behind him – only person coming in that would make _that_ little hitch in the air. And sure enough, not a moment later there's a soft push of air and then a body is taking the chrome and leatherette stool beside him, settling on with a little wheeze and the click of boot-heel to steel. Jason sets his cup down and stabs a browned slice of apple – lifts it to his mouth and bites it in half, savoring the warm sugar-and-cinnamon.

"Back like a bad penny," Christian says, and Jason grins, swallowing. 

"Miss me, Kane?"

"Much as you missed me," Christian says, and Jason laughs softly. 

He reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket, slides his wallet out and thumbs through the bills inside to find a twenty and a ten to lay on the scuffed Formica of the bar. "I got his, too, Lacey," Jason says, and Lacey – sixty if she's a day, blue-white hair and a rhinestone chain on her glasses, gives a little nod. "You have good day," Jason says, finally looking at Kane, who's looking like he wants to spit, hands in fists on the bar, back rigid, his blue eyes electric with fury. 

Jason doesn't know exactly why he does this; doesn't know why Christian's hate is as necessary to him as air, but it is. He feeds it and tends it like a rare orchid, and it flowers and thrives in Christian's soul, deadly-toxic as oleander and arsenic. Jason touches two fingers to his forehead as he slides down off his stool, sarcastic little salute. "See you 'round, Kane."

"Fuck you, Behr," Christian snarls, and Jason laughs again – saunters out of the diner and to his bike, straddling the worn leather of the seat as he pulls out his gloves and works them over scarred knuckles. His hands are trembling, minute shivers.

 _Just need a fix. Little something, get a little shut-eye. Fucking Kane._ He settles the goggles into place, plunging the bright-white sunlight of an early-morning summer day into greenish gloom, and kicks the engine to life. Gravel spits out from under the tires as he drives out of the parking lot, heading toward the interstate again, to cross over it and get a room on the other side at the Railway Motel. 

There are only two cars in the parking lot there, and he gets the room at the far end of the L-shaped sprawl, windowless wall crowded by brushy sumac and blackberry brambles. He gets his bike right up under the lone window and has to shove the door hard with his shoulder, stumbling over the threshold and into twilight. 

He throws his saddlebags over the back of the single chair, shoves the window open and drags his jacket off. Fishing a joint out of his half-empty pack of Lucky Strikes, he digs out his Zippo, lights up and takes three long, deep drags while he jerks at the straps and buckles of his boots and heels them off. Then he's dropping the roach into an amber-glass ashtray, reeling a little, snake-hiss of his belt coming out of his jeans, jeans undone and then he's falling, straight down onto the bed, pillow yanked free of the dusty-blue comforter. His eyes falling shut and his whole body going slack, tension release so profound it hurts. He sleeps for sixteen straight hours, soothed by the lullaby of tires on asphalt – steel wheels on polished tracks.

 

Every day in that town is some kind of test. Every day he feels David like an itch under his skin, tickling irritation that won't go away. He knows how to fix it, knows what to do, just…refuses. Because this itch never stops, and if he gives in, lets go…. He'll be raw and bloody and torn wide open by the time he stops.

It's been a year since he was here last, and he's stayed away as long as he could. First eight months were easy: he was doing time in Oregon, nothing much, but it's not hard to dry out inside. Easy to ignore that itch in favor of other things. Surviving. Breathing. 

But after that – it was one long, rambling road that let right back here, to this fucked up little town and its fucked-up little people. To memories he's tried to burn out with drugs and sex and blood – feelings he's tried to bury down deep.

But the choke-chain's been around his neck for too long, and he can't resist forever. So back he comes, armored in leather and acid humor, keeping the world at bay with 14-hydroxydihydrocodeinone and blood. The fights keep him in money – keep him moving – and when he's riding that winner's high, when he's turning and kicking and punching and _flying_ ….

There's nothing in his head at all.

But it's been seven days, and the simple fact that David lives _here_ – that David's boots walk these streets, his mouth touches the glasses and forks and spoons at Lacey's, his lungs breathe out the air Jason breathes in – It's too much, and not enough, so Jason goes to find the one other thing that makes him forget. That makes him hate himself so much, he can't even think about David. 

He goes to see his mom in her shotgun shack on Pearl Street, faded plastic pinwheels in her yard, leaning over like drunks. Faded blue siding peeling off her house, paint peeling off the porch rail.

She's as faded as everything else, washed-out brown eyes and her hair gone pinky-white, no more red rinse, no more perms. Faded old housecoat and ratty felt slippers, nervous little washing of one hand against another as she moves restlessly around and around and around. Compulsion makes her wipe the same clean counter, straighten the same ruler-perfect edge of the towel on the back of the couch; threadbare insurance against sweaty shoulders and greasy hair.

Every time Jason reaches for the too-sweet tea she's poured him, she flinches, and when he jerks to his feet in frustrated, furious silence she freezes like a rabbit. Jason wants to ( _take her apart, make it stop, put her out of her misery_ ) get the fuck out so bad he can taste it, road dust and exhaust on his tongue, rumble of his bike between his thighs, uncatchable and invincible so long as he keeps moving. 

Instead, he drags a wad of creased bills out of his pocket and drops it on the table, stooping to press his mouth to the dry, soft curve of her cheek, holding his breath against the sick-sweet and chemical smell of her: cheap lotion and lye soap, vinegar and resignation. 

She looks at the money like it's a heap of snakes – takes up her bible and clutches it close, following behind as Jason walks to the door.

 _You still making money on your knees, child? Because Satan will tell you you've got no choice, but the Lord is always waiting for you to choose him._

Jason doesn't answer her – doesn't look back. Guns his bike into motion and action and just drives.

 

It takes him most of his stash and six hours to settle the sick fury that knots his belly up and makes his hands shake. By the time he crawls back onto his bike, everything is blinding-bright, all the colors too sharp, the shadows too dark, edges vibrating and his head roaring, a static hiss that saws like a dull blade.

He guns his bike through town and out to the Gaslight, because there's always somebody selling there, always somebody ready to alter your reality one way or another. There's a band of cloud like green-black smoke across the western horizon and the wind pushing against him is warm and thick with rain-scent.

He skids into the parking lot, rear wheel wobbling; almost goes down but he recovers at the last second, whooping a laugh. He curves around the building to the back, dumpsters and stacks of crates, concrete stairs up to the back door. Couple pick-ups there, one primer-splotched Mustang of uncertain years, and Christian's old rattle-trap Bronco. Fucking thing was built before either of them were born and Jason gives its rusting flank a slap as he stumbles past, up the stairs and into the back, into air-conditioning and the stink of stale beer, old cigarette smoke, sweat. 

Bottle caps rattle away from his boots as he walks the back hall, searching. The band'll be here, setting up, but so will some others, guys who wanna play roadie for a night, scam a little pussy, some free beer, whatever. The fucking twins, for sure, maybe Vinnie. Maybe Russell. Jason licks his lips and shoves his hands back through his hair, fingers tangling in the wind-blown mess of it, giving it a yank, the sting rippling through him, twisting into something else.

Behind the stage is a dusty, half-lit space, tangles of cable and ratty backdrop curtain - a couple of folding chairs, an ancient and moth-eaten coat hanging on a nail, probably stand up on its own if anyone ever bothered to take it down.

And yeah, there they are, Christian's band, and there's the twins, acting like idiots, and there's J. August, looking ready to slap them into tomorrow.

No sign of Christian, but Russell sees him and straightens up from his slouch against the wall – grins that grin that's so familiar. It makes Jason's belly give a little ripple, anticipation and aversion in one nasty package, everything he loves and hates in that slope-shouldered strut that brings Russell right over into his space.

"Behr. Didn't know you were in town."

"Just passing through," Jason says. Russell smells like dust and sweat and 'shine – like smoke and something metallic that rasps over Jason's nerves and makes him click his teeth, rictus grin that even the dumb-ass twins can't mistake for _friendly_. 

"Yeah? Gonna stay, see the band?" Russell is right up in Jason's space, so close Jason can feel the hairs on his arms standing up, and the urge to lash out – kick, punch, _bite_ – is almost overwhelming. Jason doesn't move – doesn't blink – just stares back at Russell, whose eyes are bloodshot and too wide, too dark. 

"Fuck, I need to be high to listen to this woe-is-me country crap." Jason drags air into his lungs – feels like he only gets half of what he needs. Hates this trough in the highs, where everything he's done and felt and thought seems to crash right down onto him, bury him alive. "What'd'ya think, man, got anything'll get me through a set?"

Russell grins wide, predator's gleam of white teeth in the gloom, and reaches out, his callused fingers curving around Jason's neck, thumb stroking forward along Jason's jaw and circling, holding Jason's throat in a loose grip. "Yeah, think I just might. Why don't you and me go have a look."

Jason can feel his skin shivering, like a horse throwing off a fly, and his left hand comes up, jerky as a puppet on a string, and slaps Russell's hand away. "Yeah, why don't we."

 

An hour later, he's flying high - on his knees – jaw aching and his hair tangled in Russell's fist. Jacking himself with a hand that shakes and spasms and won't grip quite _right_ , because _fuck_ , he is high, and he can't actually remember, from minute to minute, what the fuck he's doing.

Russell seems to get that, too, and he shoves Jason back with a snort, tips up the jar of 'shine he hauled out of his truck and takes a long swallow, then wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. 

He tilts the jar in Jason's direction, and Jason leans in and gets a mouthful. Ice and fire, crackling all the way to his belly. He laughs out loud when Russell stands up, hauling Jason up by his arms and pushing him against the wall of the little room that's half office, half junk storage. 

It's dusty and too warm. Jason pushes at the splintery paneling under his palms. Kicks backward, pure instinct, when Russell's hands land on his hips. Russell yelps and kicks Jason's legs wider, slants his forearm across Jason's throat, clumsy chokehold.

"Knock it the fuck off."

"Fucking fuck me, then, asshole," Jason says, his voice scraping in his throat. Russell yanks at Jason's jeans, dragging them lower, and his hand slaps down on Jason's ass – pries him open with spit and sweat and shoves in. And this is easier – this is better – because Jason doesn't have to look at him, doesn't have to think about what the fuck he's doing, just has to take it, and he's always been so good at that. So fucking _good_ at that….

Russell is muttering into Jason's shoulder blade, fuck knows what he's saying, and Jason stretches for the 'shine jar on the warped desk, lifting it up and tipping it back, liquid fire making his lips burn, his throat – his belly. Russell bucks forward, pushing Jason into the wall, and the jar bumps his lip hard, pinching it between slippery rim and Jason's teeth. Fucking hurts – fucking _glows_ – and Jason has no idea if it's good or bad, it just is – one more sensation to add to the pile – and he lets the mostly-empty, slippery-wet jar slip from his fingers and roll away across the musty, matted carpet.

"Hey, fuck's sake…stupid bitch," Russell says, and Jason shoves _back_ – twists away from Russell, air hissing out of his lungs at the sudden, gut-pulling feel of Russell's cock jerking free. Jason faces him, lips pulling back in a snarl.

"Fuck you, Crowe. Not your bitch."

Russell looks pissed – looks surprised – and then looks amused, and Jason can feel his heart pounding, sledgehammer against his ribs.

"Aw, baby, c'mon – you know you love it. Fuckin' made to be somebody's bitch, Jason – always have been."

The fist Jason slams into Russell's face stings and then throbs, but Jason doesn't notice, doesn't care. He finds himself stumbling out into the main room, yanking his jeans up, crashing into a chair and then some woman before he reels to a stop against the pool table. J. August stands up from a shot, his gaze roving over Jason and seeing exactly what there is to see – exactly what Jason was doing – and he grins.

"Gettin' your slut on, Behr?" he says, and Jason feels nothing but surprise when the five-ball under his fingertips shoots across the table and slams into J. August's chest. _Reap the whirlwind_ , Jason thinks, and the static in his head is a rabid wolf's howl.

 

He doesn't stop until Christian pulls him off – Christian and somebody he doesn't know. He gets Christian right in the eye, and then Christian gets him in a chokehold and he finally quits, letting the other man drag him out back into the hot, gusting wind, storm coming down on them so fast it makes Jason's bones ache.

Christian isn't fucking letting _go_. Jason twists and jerks in his hold – rabbit-punches him in the ribs and gets away, collapsing against the side of Christian's Bronco, breathless, as Christian cusses and kicks an empty beer-can, hard.

"You dumb-ass motherfucker, what the _fuck_ , you _tryin'_ to get killed? You want every fuckin' good ole boy in there on your ass? Jesus _fuck_ , you never know when to keep your damn mouth shut!" Christian is yelling and Jason has no fucking idea what he's talking about, none at all, but his throat hurts, like he was screaming some, and hell, maybe he was. Fuck knows what comes out of his mouth when he's like that, but it can't ever be good. Jason's head is pounding and the fucking _noise_ it's making is deafening and fuck, he hurts, he just…hurts.

"Jesus, shut up, shut up, _please_ , okay? Fuck." Jason shoves a hand down into his pocket – winces at the rasp of denim across split, aching knuckles. He digs around, trying to find something – anything – and comes up with a little vial, something he swiped off Russell before Russell….

He doesn't even know what it is, just tips some out into the little dip between his thumb and curled forefinger and snorts it. One, two – nearly three, but Christian slaps it out of his hand, knocks the vial spinning into the gloom by the dumpsters and slaps Jason's hand down and away. 

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?"

"Nothin' a bullet won't cure," Jason mutters. Whatever it was is hitting and hitting hard. His heart is pounding, his skin is tingling, the top of his head feels like it's about to come right off and fuck, but he could swear he can hear screaming on that storm wind. A familiar voice he never wants to hear again, ghost wail that makes his fists clench up and his stomach twist in sick, desperate loathing. " _Shut up, shut up, shut up_ ," he mutters, and Christian slams him back into the metal side of the Bronco, making his head snap back, jaws shut.

Jason can taste blood – fuck, he bit his tongue – and he glares down at Christian, swallowing iron and trying to get his fucking legs to push him up and away – get the fuck out of there. He feels like he's vibrating right out of his skin. "What the fuck is your problem, Kane?" he rasps, and Christian's blue eyes are incandescent, staring into him like lasers.

" _You_ are my fucking problem. You're _always_ my fucking problem, every God damn time I turn around, there you fucking are, even when you're _not_ , and _nothing_ \- " Christian's hands are knotted in Jason's shirt – when the fuck had _that_ happened? – and he lifts Jason up a couple inches and slams him back into the Bronco again. "Fucking _nothing_ makes you go away. Why- ? Why can't- ?" Christian stops, blinking hard, so fucking close, up tight against Jason from thigh to chest, warm through denim and cotton, and Jason is just….

Fuck, he's so fucking confused. Christian doesn't look angry; all the hate that usually makes his eyes gleam and his mouth snarl and his shoulders bunch like a pissed-off lion is gone. What's staring Jason in the face is desperation and bafflement and exhaustion, and Jason can feel himself sagging down, aching head and aching body and god, why can't that voice just shut up, shut up, _shutthefuckup_ …..

"Why can't you just go away, Jason? Just…go the fuck away."

"Kane…Christian…." Jason untangles his fingers from where they're latched onto Christian's shirt – lifts his hand, blood-streaked and shaking, toward Christian's cheek. Christian flinches back like Jason's got a gun or something, and Jason lets his hand fall. Christian's eyes are unreal in the diffused, green-gold murk of the storm light, and Jason feels something twist in his gut, emotion he doesn't want to examine.

"I dunno, man. I just…I can't…fucking shake him off. I can't do it." Jason lets his head fall back, cracked little laugh falling from his lips. "Been a fucking junkie most of my life, man, and David…." Little jerky gasp from Christian at the name, and Jason looks back down at him and fuck if he doesn’t wish he hadn't said that. "Can't sweat him out, man. Can't drink him gone, can't fuck him out of my system. There just ain't anything in me strong enough."

Christian shoves Jason back, just a little, but there's nowhere for him to go, and Jason pushes forward, off the Bronco and into Christian, and fuck, he can't help himself, he just can't. He lifts his hand again and this time gets it on the stubble and bone of Christian's jaw, tips his head down to Christian's and just stands there for a moment, his heartbeat thumping through his fingertips, bouncing them off Christian's skin in tiny little flutters, over and over. Christian so close, Jason can smell his skin; can feel the rough silk of his hair as the wind lashes it across his cheek, tangling with Jason's own.

"Gotta go see my daddy, Christian. Got a fucking bone to pick with him. You tell David hey for me." He jerks himself away before Christian can say a word – walks fast to his bike, slinging his leg over and kicking it into life, ignoring Christian's voice, ignoring the way everything seems to be vibrating, edges so sharp and bright, head full of noise. 

He guns the bike into motion – out of the parking lot and gone, driving too fast and too reckless, but fuck if he cares. The gravel under his tires spits and rattles, and about a mile in, the skies open up and rain pours down, cold and hard. It's slanting into his eyes and he's got no fucking idea where his goggles are. He screams into the wind, laughing as he wobbles over ruts and rocks, washboards and washouts.

He can see the top of the hill – the big, lightning-wrecked cedar that stands sentinel there, over the family fucking plot – and he guns it. He's staring so hard he misses the big-ass rock in the middle of the road and fuck if that's not the last straw, the final insult.

He goes down, spinning and sliding, and it’s a tombstone that stops his bike – stops him. His whole left side is one giant, burning ache. He kicks himself free and staggers to his feet, peels off his jacket and digs out his smokes, and the little baggy he picked up, another thing Russell'll be pissed about, if Russell even remembers. He drapes his jacket over the single upright handlebar and chases a pill out of the baggie – swallows it down. 

Then he's staggering toward the tree – the graves – the gleaming-white headstone like the fucking tooth of a god, stuck down there in the clay. Staggers and stumbles and trips over something, and when he's steady on his feet again, he looks down in pure delight at the rusting thing half-hidden in the weeds of the verge. 

"Ain't you a sight," he says, and bends down and picks the crowbar up, then strides on up the hill. On up to Daddy. Gonna dig that fucker up and tell him exactly what he thinks of the old bastard. Maybe get in a few licks he never could, back in the day. Back when he was a skinny little kid with eyes too big and hair too long, arms too weak to push the old man away, to push away his drinking buddies who fucking didn't mind taking out Daddy's poker debts in trade, not a fucking one of 'em.

Jason swings the length of iron, grinning – crying – and lets the rain wash it all away. 

When David shows up, it's almost a relief; he doesn't have to think about his daddy, now. Doesn't really have to think at all.

 

The storm's long gone, and so is the day that came after, sultry air and everything so fucking green – washed clean, dust tamped down for a while. The sun's setting again, this time sliding down a water-clear sky, pale sherbet shades of lemon and orange and strawberry fanned along the horizon. Nighthawks are already diving, fishing for gnats, and the cicadas are buzzing, a little quieter now.

David's bed is soft, the sheets are worn, comfortable denim-blue and faded green, pillows pushed up against the slatted headboard.

The light coming in from the bathroom is amber and low and mellow, and Jason stands naked at the window, smoking one of David's cigarettes. His wet hair is cool on his shoulders – dripping a little down his back – and he picks up the clothes David shoved into the washing machine some time that first night. Mud stains mostly gone, blood stains mostly gone. New tear in the left thigh of his jeans. Doesn't matter.

Jason dresses – drags his boots on and laces them up tight – butts out the cigarette in the ashtray by the bed. David's closet door is open, spill of jeans and kicked-off shoes across the threshold; gleam of a hanger here, a button there.

An old, washed-out plaid shirt hangs there, blues gone to greys, red gone to a sort of pinkish-orange, cuffs frayed, button missing, collar curling funny. Jason shrugs it on – rolls the sleeves up, because they hang down past his knuckles, like the tails hang down past his ass, whole thing too big, not his size, not _his_.

David's humming to himself in the spray, just loud enough for Jason to hear, something low and slow, and Jason feels his mouth twitch up in a smile. He shoves his lighter into his pocket, picks up the money clip David tossed on the dresser and takes about half, then shoulders on his jacket and pushes out the door. Out of the house.

Onto his bike and back across the highway, back to the Railway. Ten minutes to stuff his clothes into the saddlebags – to make sure he's got everything he came with. He leaves the key and one of David's twenties on the dresser.

A long time ago, he used to ask David to come with him, to just leave it all in the rear-view, shake off the dust and the past, just _go_. 

He doesn't do that, anymore. Now he just puts the sun behind him, and drives.


End file.
